


Our Shadows, When They Meet

by SylverLining



Category: Basil of Baker Street Series - Eve Titus, Disney Cartoons (Classic), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disney, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay, How Gay Are These Mice? The Answer May Surprise You!, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Is there any other kind of Basil?, M/M, Neurodivergent Basil of Baker Street
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24083257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylverLining/pseuds/SylverLining
Summary: Basil of Baker Street has suffered a terrible injury at the claws of his worst enemy. In his delirium, he lets slip to Dr. Dawson that his history with Ratigan is much more intimate and sordid than it would appear - but Dawson has secrets of his own, a past that he fears could destroy his future with Basil.
Relationships: Basil of Baker Street/David Dawson, Basil of Baker Street/Padraic Ratigan
Comments: 21
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deathstar510](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathstar510/gifts).



> Warnings for gun violence (offscreen), emergency surgery (onscreen but not explicit), allusions to past abusive relationships, trauma-based dissociation, and an impressive amount of angst. Ratigan's evil level is very high for someone his size, and the same is true of Basil and Dawson's Emotion Level. And also mine.
> 
> Chapter 1 of 3.

We have survived the night, but just barely, ~~and I fear that Basil--~~

_(The next several lines are scratched out, ink flowing in thick, disorderly splotches.)_

Do excuse that lapse in literary propriety; as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Baker Street is quiet. It often is, at three o'clock in the morning, and tonight it feels as ifI am the only mouse left awake or alive in all the world. My name is Doctor David Q. Dawson, and ~~tonight was perhaps the most perilous case that Basil of Baker--~~

~~**Dash it all!** ~~

_(A few more stricken lines. From here, the penmanship improves.)_

I give up. Why am I even attempting to write as if tonight were an ordinary night, and all this just another of our tales of intrigue? Tonight isn't ordinary, the world isn't right, and it won't be, not until Basil awakens, and speaks to me again, and everything begins to make the least bit of sense.

I've written many stories about the great Basil of Baker Street over our years together, and they've grown into books--but this is not one. Rather, it is his story, ours, but it is not to be read or sold. This is not a manuscript, and it shall not be published. These words must never be seen by any mouse's eyes but my own. Perhaps, when I am finished, I shall burn this paper--but first, I must write the night's events upon it. They rattle in my head like stones in a shaken bucket, and after everything that's happened tonight, I fear that if I do not get my thoughts out, they may simply tear me apart.

I start not at the beginning, for there is too much, and the details are unimportant. The only thing that matters is that just over an hour ago, I half-carried, half-dragged my dear friend and partner Basil of Baker Street over the threshold to the flat we share, a trail of spattered and smeared blood in our wake. His blood.

My friend had been shot.

By a revolver, small but lethal, made to fit into another mouse's hand--or in this case, a rat.

Of course it was Ratigan. Is it ever not Ratigan? Will there ever be a moment's peace, when that villain, that _monster_ , does not--

_(The rest of the line is illegible. Clearer writing resumes below.)_

As I said, the details are unimportant... but with that single detail, they should be apparent. A bullet had found its way into my companion's back, a coward's shot. His back, and, I feared and prayed not, his abdomen or chest. I'd searched for an exit wound but found none--most unfortunate, and chilling. The tiny piece of metal--so small, so horrible--was still inside him, and he could barely walk or stay conscious for the pain.

"Here we are, let's lay you down right here, there's a lad," I babbled as I maneuvered the patient over to a workable table, first sweeping aside some strange machinery from some forgotten experiment before laying him down on his stomach as gently as possible. I was speaking nonsense without expecting an answer, the kind of wartime automatic speech one slips into during a crisis, to fill a terrible silence and reassure the injured party that he is not alone--

 _"The injured party." "The patient."_ I did it again. Disgusting. Simply dreadful.

You see, during all my years as a military surgeon in Her Majesty's sixty-sixth regiment, I prided myself on not only a thankfully high survival rate, but the ability to look at a patient and not simply see a broken doll, a malfunctioning automaton of flesh and moving parts. Such is a coping technique employed by many of my colleagues, many of them excellent physicians I'm pleased to know--but such a thing has been near-impossible for me. By some abundance of hyper-empathy that for the life of me I cannot turn off, I simply cannot see an injured person without seeing a person. No matter the battle, the triage, the horrors, each patient who finds themself on my table has a name, has a dearest wish and greatest fear, cried and giggled as a mouseling, just as they think and feel and dream today.

All of this you must know, to understand my shock at myself, and then my horror.

Because tonight, when this patient--when Basil, his name is Basil, sometimes 'The Great' or 'of Baker Street,' sometimes disguised, but always, always Basil--when he lay before me, as my paws moved of their own accord, gently removing his overcoat and cutting through--with apologies!--his shirt, as if I were the automaton myself... I did not see a mouse. I saw a broken doll. I saw a problem to be solved, a mystery to be unraveled--but where Basil looked at every mystery with joy and excitement, I felt... nothing.

Not until I felt something touch my paw. I looked down in surprise, starting a bit, to see Basil's blood-stained paw weakly grasping my own. His eyes were only half-open, but they were fixed on my face, as piercing and intense as always, even as they slipped in and out of focus.

"My dear Doctor," he murmured, and I leaned in a bit closer to hear him. "Promise me something."

"Yes, yes, of course," I stammered. "Anything, Basil. Name it."

"Never... take up... poker." I must have looked utterly baffled, as a pained smile spread across his face. "You have a spectacularly... terrible... poker face." He sucked in a ragged breath, and, thank everything good and pure in the world, I heard no wheezing, no wet cough. "Is it really as bad as all that?"

I have never lied to Basil. I did not start then. "It's bad--but the night isn't over. And neither is your story. Basil of Baker Street has many, many more adventures ahead of him. Enough to fill volumes!"

"Oh, good," he said, letting out a sound that may have begun as a chuckle, but quickly became a gasp of pain. "I was hoping we'd do this again sometime."

I did not answer, for I was occupied retrieving my black medical bag, pouring water to boil, fetching clean cloth and basins, sterilizing my instruments, and generally turning our flat's living room into a makeshift medical tent. My body seemed to move on its own accord, knowing what was needed still after all this time.

But I was still shaken, and aghast at my own brain. I have never, in my life, felt nothing. Certainly not for him. I believe now that this was my own devastated heart trying to protect itself, and in its own way, protect him--for if I saw the brutalized body before me as a mouse named Basil, my friend whom I love, and live and work with every day... I would have been frozen. Paralyzed. And he would have died.

He did not die.

I write it again, to sear it into my brain that still, even now, worries that the words aren't true: _Basil did not die._ He lives, and sleeps right now, just in the next room. But oh, the journey there was not an easy one.

"Basil," I said haltingly. "I need to get that bullet out if this story's going to have a happy ending."

"Let me guess," he whispered, voice too weak, too faint. "I won't feel a thing?"

As I said, I have never lied to him, and have not begun now. I had no anesthesia. The only painkillers available wouldn't take effect quickly enough--I briefly considered using his alcohol stores not to sterilize instruments but to dull his senses, but even that would not come swiftly enough. And that accursed bullet could not stay inside him for a moment longer.

When I said nothing, Basil's paws gripped the edges of the table and his face set into a hard, determined mask.

"I thought as much," he said, and his voice was a bit stronger now, filled with the same steel I've come to know and trust, when, as he's done so many times before, this small genius stares down a deadly, terrifying monster twenty times his size, and does not blink. "Let's get on with it."

I will spare you the worst details. I wish with all my heart I could spare myself the memory, and him the pain. But I must say--or rather, confess--that in the absence of any real pain relief, I folded one of my belts in half and gave it to him to bite down upon, as if it were centuries ago, some dark age instead of our enlightened time, and I a medieval quack instead of a studied surgeon. By the time I was finished, he'd nearly bitten it completely through.

The agony contorting his face and body, the way he twisted and shook beneath my paws, the way his own clenched and grasped, at the table and once at me, desperate for relief, the way the fur on his brow matted with cold sweat... and the sounds he made. They were not screams. Nothing so pleasant, so unbroken. The sounds ripped from Basil's throat will stay with me for my entire life, carefully stored in my heart beside the horrors of my time on the front lines, and the final moments of so many fine young mice who suffered and died there.

May I be forgiven, for then and for now.

To my credit... I did not mentally abandon him again. He did not become a nameless patient, or a breathing puzzle to solve. He remained Basil--and every gasp and strangled cry was his alone.

Finally, the job was done. The bullet extricated, the wound--bullet hole, and horrid, brutal slashes from terrible claws--cleaned as best I could, and then stitched together with the very stitch pattern with which he'd deduced I was a surgeon at all, within a minute of our first meeting. I gave him--both of us--a moment's rest, and then, as gently as I could and as firmly as I dared, I helped him rise from the table, and supported him all the way to our own room and bed. As before, I lay him down on his stomach, his back exposed with further apologies for the cold. Thankfully, our small flat's master bedroom has its own miniature fireplace, and it is here I went to work once Basil was settled.

Throughout, I'd resumed my unconscious prattle, ostensibly to comfort him with the sound of another's voice, but in truth, I believe I needed it just as badly.

"Come now, Doctor," I heard presently from the bed, his voice still thin and faint, but with a note of amusement that did more to calm my nerves than all the finest brandy in the world. "This is nothing. A mere flesh wound. Surely a military mouse like you has seen worse than this."

"That is very difficult to say," I replied, ensuring the fire would burn steadily and keep Basil free from chill in the absence of his robe or bedclothes. "It's true that I've been present for many terrible days, but my patients then were also military mice. Trained and prepared for such horrors, and willing volunteers."

"And am I not a willing volunteer?" Basil asked, eyes closed but tone wry. "I knew the risks when I signed up as a famed detective. I've no room to complain."

"But they were soldiers, Basil," I insisted. "And although you match any of them in bravery, civilians are simply not meant to suffer such things. That's why we did what we did at all, to ensure that exactly this never..."

And then I realized something that my poor, benighted brain had been trying to hide from me. It was the way Basil endured his ordeal, the readiness with which he accepted the cleansing pain, the knowledge that the only way out was through.

"You act as though you've seen worse than this as well," I said, more quietly, and though Basil did not open his eyes, his face shifted enough, large ears drooping just a bit, that I knew my question's aim had been true.

"He's done this for years," Basil said, his own voice dropping. "It's nothing new. I never engage Ratigan without expecting to walk away with a few scratches."

"Scratches?" I repeated, and nearly laughed in spite of myself. "If these are scratches, I should hate to see what you'd call serious."

Basil did not smile in return. "As I said, I'm no stranger to Ratigan's charms. He's always been obsessed with leaving his mark--on the world, on history... On me. He's just gotten much worse since I left him, that's all."

I nodded in sympathy, then stopped, as the full implications of his words sank in past my automatic social graces, and my own brain's guard against things too painful, too awful, to be imagined.

In that moment, I imagined them. I couldn't help myself. Just as I could not keep myself from asking, hesitant, keeping my voice as light as I could manage, but filled with a building dread: "Since you... Left him?"

Basil held perfectly still. He did not speak. With his eyes closed, I thought--I prayed--that he'd fallen asleep, but some prayers are not meant to be answered. His face took on a kind of strange peace, as if he'd come to a decision and released a burden long held and hidden behind walls that I sensed were about to come crashing down.

"I have never made a habit of hiding things from you, my dear Dawson," he said, and his tone was the same studiedly conversational one I'd taken on, the kind that told me beyond any doubt that something earth-shaking lurked behind it. "Ratigan and I do have... A good bit of history between us."

That was putting it extremely lightly. I wanted to laugh, a hysterical, half-panicked sound. 'You don't say, Basil?' I wanted to crow. 'You and the filthy devil who did his very best to break and kill you, whose twisted mind seems focused on one thing and one thing only: your torture and obliteration--you have a history together? Surely not!'

But I held my tongue, and my nerves together, and spoke in a much calmer, more rational voice than I'd thought possible. "I'd surmised that, yes."

"And I suppose it's time you heard it. The important bits, anyway."

"Not just now," I protested. "Now, you need to sleep. Doctor's orders, Basil!"

It was not a lie. I wanted nothing more than for him to sleep, to heal, to awaken refreshed as he could possibly be under the circumstances. But that was not the only reason I asked him not to speak. If I am being honest--and I must be, with myself if no one else--I was afraid of what I might hear if he continued. And I was afraid of what I might say in return.

As I've said twice now, I believe, I have never lied to Basil. I never will.

But I have not told him everything, either.

"It started at Ratcliffe college," he said, heedless of my objections. In truth, by now, even with eyes open he had to be only semiconscious, and I doubted he could even hear them--yet in true Basil form, his speech remained elegant and expressive. "I was amongst the very best and brightest of England's mice, along with several from far-flung parts abroad. Did I tell you my roommate was an actual Maharajah? A fine mouse, the picture of regality if I've ever seen it!"

"You had, yes," I said fondly, glad despite my worries to hear some of the old spark back in his voice, even if too much exertion was very ill-advised.

Now he opened his eyes and smiled up at me, painfully tired though he must have been. "Do you know, you remind me a great deal of him! So much that when we first met, I--"

"Basil," I cut in gently. "It is very late. And you need to rest much more than I need to be flattered. What say we leave this to--"

"Those were bright days, my friend," he said, eyes slipping shut once more and voice becoming muffled with sleepiness. "And the most brilliantly shining star of all... my literature and poetry professor. Singular mind... Towering intellect... Owe him everything, really. Wouldn't be here if not for..."

"He sounds like a most wonderful mouse," I remarked, finally resigned to humoring my patient and partner. Basil had ended many a night by drifting off mid-sentence, and more than once, I'd held a nearly complete and coherent conversation with him before realizing he was talking to me from a dream! If a late-night conversation partner was the thing to comfort and lull him into a healing sleep, I would comply most gladly. "Do you remember your favorite professor's name?"

"Why yes, of course," Basil said around an enormous yawn. His voice grew fainter with every word as he drifted off, pulled by sheer exhaustion into the depths of slumber. "His name was Professor Padraic Ratigan."

* * *

Ah - forgive that unsightly blot! I've nearly ruined this page, it seems! My paws are still shaking, my head reelingfrom all I've heard. That was only the beginning, and much stranger, more dreadful things were to come... from both of us. My dear Basil believes that he is the only one with sins to confess, and, in an unprecedented miscalculation--he is wrong on both accounts.

Firstly, he has committed no sin at all, at least none that would warrant such punishment as that fiend inflicts upon him.

And secondly... oh, I am a cowardly excuse of a mouse. I cannot put word to my guilt, even here, alone in a darkened room. Ah, another blot--I fear my paws shall continue to tremble until I can voice my transgressions and air my old shame long since buried.

I can only hope that in the light of day, my dearest friend can find it in his good and gracious heart to forgive me.

Now, I must set the pen down and check on my patient, who is hopefully still in bed and not embarking on any new adventures. I shall return at my earliest convenience, likely tomorrow night--or, I should say, tonight! The hours have slipped away from me. I know I shall be able to think of nothing but this, of him, bothof them, untilmy secrets have been brought to light alongside my friend's. It is the only fairness left that I can give him.

* * *

**A FOOTNOTE:**

Basil, do stop reading this, and remove your over-curious nose from this document! I assure you, you've better things to do than bear witness to the melodrama of an old doctor's ramblings--and my other manuscripts are much better-edited.

Besides, by the time you've discovered and read any of this, you'll have recovered, free of pain if not your cares. We'll have handled all of this terrible business between us, and my secrets and yours shall be no more than ancient history... or so I most fervently hope. I also hope that when you read this, we remain one another's trusted friends. Forif there were ever a thing to end our pleasant association, what I have to confess may be it.

But hopefully, by the time of your reading these words, I'll have also told you exactly how brave and rare and dear you are, and how glad I am to have you to rifle through my works-in-progress. Now be off with you and eat something; whether we remain together or not, I can be sure that you've neglected feeding yourself in favor of chasing intrigue once again.

Rest, my friend. If all goes the way I pray it will, then for now, and for whenever you read this... I shall see you in the morning.

\- from the desk of Dr. David Q. Dawson


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of abuse/the leadup to it, so survivors, proceed with caution.
> 
> SPECIFIC WARNINGS for flashback of an *extremely predatory textbook-abusive* Professor!Ratigan blatantly seducing/grooming/being generally horrible to university Student!Basil from a position of power, with very dubious consent or the possibility thereof. The writer does NOT AT ALL condone this fuckery... only thinks that in this scenario it's the most likely thing to have happened. It certainly happens enough IRL. The desired impression is utter horror, not titillation.
> 
> And that present-day Basil would still have some messy and warped views of what happened even now, because that's what abuse does--Dawson, however, knows better and hopefully does a good job of calling it out.
> 
> (Virtually all of Basil's backstory here is of my own speculation and not canon, HOWEVER, I'm not making up that Basil has a brother; he's in one of the comics/a very funny Mycroft analogue.)

I return to my writings less shaken than last night, but no happier. It has been not quite twenty-four hours since my last account, and my mind has quieted somewhat, and Basil has stabilized--but both remain in a most unstable condition. The next day or so shall be critical, both for his health, and our relationship itself. He has told me more of what he said last night, and of all our cases, none has been more disturbing, more dreadful, more...

And it's not yet over. I have not yet told him my own secrets. My intent is to wait until he is much better recovered, much safer than he is now... but has there ever been a secret the great Basil of Baker Street has not been able to uncover? I fear my days of secrecy are limited. I hope the same cannot be said of our days together.

Now, to continue, and record what happened next, for once not for posterity or publication, but for my own peace of mind.

Basil slept heavily throughout the remainder of the night, and nearly all of the next day. I had sent word to Mrs. Judson that she should take the rest of the weekend off--and to wait until one of us requested her back. Imperative detective business, I said, and at least, this was not technically untrue.

This left my attention undivided, and focused where it belonged: on Basil. I disturbed his near-unconscious sleep only to ensure that he remained hydrated and his physical needs attended-to as much as possible, with so many injuries still plaguing him. They will still take some time to heal, and my friend has never been a champion at being still and resting, but I resolved to step into my doctor's shoes, and by hook or crook, ensure that he did nothing foolish that would impede recovery.

But eventually, as the afternoon light turned orange and the sun began to dip below the London skyline, Basil stirred once again.

"Doctor," he mumbled, and I was beside him in a heartbeat.

"Yes, Basil?" I asked, perhaps a bit too eagerly, so relieved was I to hear his voice. "What is it? Can I bring you some--Basil, do be still. Please lay down, don't strain yourself."

"Don't be silly," he said, but his tone was one of gritted teeth and barely suppressed pain. "I'm feeling much better now! And Dawson, I've had the strangest dream. In my sleep, I fancied I'd told you something yesterday, something quite unusual, and you'd made a face of such shock--yes, that's the one!" He gestured to my concern-widened eyes and dropped jaw.

"You did, yes," I said, my own voice nowhere near as steady as a doctor's should be when addressing a patient in this state. In truth, I wished myself that his words, and the entire previous night, had been nothingbut a bad dream. This very moment, seeing Basil insuch pain, certainly felt like one itself. "You said something about your younger days. And--and about him. Professor Ratigan."

"So it's as I feared," he groaned, and dropped back down onto the bed. "It was no dream after all. I really did open my fool mouth and out came... well, there's nothing else for it, is there? Now that I've gone and brought it up, you may as well hear the rest. In fact--you must!"

I rushed not to push him back down, but only to steady him so he did not jar his barely-knit wounds. "Hush, dear boy, you must conserve your energy for healing. You must rest."

"No--no, I must speak! And speak to you eye-to-eye, mouse to mouse, not gazing up at you like some towering peak!" He struggled to sit up again and I gave in, moving to assist him before he reopened a stitch or barely-healed wound. "For, like the bullet which made such a mess of my insides, and which you so kindly removed, I have words that must be gotten out as well." He caught his breath, thin chest heaving in a way I did not at all like. "Only then may I begin to heal."

"All right," I sighed with a shake of my head, but helped my friend sit fully upright in bed, then swing his legs out and down until he was sitting on the edge, and I in the chair opposite him, as if we were having one of our ordinary, everyday chats before the fire. "But as your physician, I reserve the right to call a halt--a temporary one," I quickly added as his face darkened. "You shall speak as much as you like, but your recovery comes first. There will be time to speak later; I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. But for now, I'm all ears."

"Thank you, Doctor," he said, then gave me a nod and cleared his throat as if he were addressing a room full of eager mice, instead of just one. "As you may remember, I matriculated at Ratcliffe College, that place of higher knowledge and rich history. It is a beacon of learning, a shining light that guides to its walls mice with the sharpest of minds, the keenest of perception, and the greatest of potential."

"And the deepest of pocketbooks," I felt bound to add.

"Indeed," he agreed, giving me a wry sidelong glance. "So it was most fortunate that as a young mouse, I was the recipient of a very prestigious and generous scholarship--one that ensured me a place in this excellent institution, free of charge. It was a dream I hadn't dared to believe could possibly come true--but it did. The day I received that letter announcing my acceptance--welcoming me home!--it was, thus far, the proudest day of my life!"

"I'm sure your parents were very proud as well," I said with a pleased chuckle, delighting in the image of a small Basil being showered with all the praises and congratulations he so richly deserved.

"Yes..." he said, but the smile slipped from his face, his eyes downcast. "I suppose they may have been, had they been able to see it. I've never told you this, Dawson, but... Inever knew my parentage, nor my true place of origin."

"But, your brother?" I inquired, remembering the odd mouse to whom he'd introduced me at the house of deep thinkers.

"No blood relation, but in every other way that matters. We were raised as wards of the state, living in first an orphanage, then a group home of other unfortunate mouselings. Have you ever wondered why I've such concern for our dear Baker Street Irregulars, the street children no one else tends to give a second glance? It's not because I'm some modern-day saint, but because I remember being that young... And but for some miracle, could very easily have joined their number."

"Why, Basil," I began, feeling thoroughly foolish and insensitive. "I had no idea."

"Of course not," he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched, but more in a grimace than a smile. "How could you? As I just said, I'd never told you, and that was not at all by accident. In fact, I remember being quite damnably evasive when you asked after my childhood for that first volume of my biography!"

"I had wondered about that," I admitted. "But did not feel it was my place to pry."

"For which I am grateful. But I--well, I'm sure I would have told you at some point in the future. But until now..." He was quiet for a moment. Only a brief pause for most mice, but when considering the lightning speed at which Basil's remarkable brain worked, it was quite a reverie for him. "I suppose I didn't want you to look at me as anything other than the Great Mouse Detective, sprung from the aether grown and fully formed, magnifying glass in paw, prepared for anything. Does that surprise you, Doctor?"

I must have looked quite nonplussed indeed, and in truth, I was. "A bit. I'd never thought you in the habit of caring what anyone else thought of you."

"I don't," he said, eyes dropping once more to the floor. "Which should be patently obvious, given the, ah, admitted eccentricities of my life. But, Dawson... I care what _you_ think. I wanted you to see me as I wanted to see myself. Not as anyone who'd once been so scared, so naive--and so foolish."

"Basil," I said softly. "Nothing could make me think less of you. You could have been raised by feral cats, or even by humans--far rougher ones than Detective Holmes, of course--and made every mistake possible under the sun. I would still think of you as the same way: a brilliant mouse, and my dear friend."

"I do thank you for that," he said, and now he did smile, slowly, but truly. "And I should have known you would never judge me so harshly--it's simply not in your good character. And yet..."

He trailed off, and I did not pursue. Presently, he shook his head, large ears flapping a bit, then looked pained, as if he'd regretted the movement.

"But back to my tale of woe--I'll need to rest soon, much as I'm loath to admit it, and before then, you must hear me.

"Now, where was I--ah. Ratcliffe. Freshman year. In the company of learned mice, and a most welcoming Professor. I was, as you'd expect, the best in his class--not a boast, simply a fact. Almost every time Professor Ratigan posed a question about an author's intent, a hidden meaning or symbol, I raised my paw, and gave the answer he wanted. It all seemed so obvious to me--elementary, if you will, instead of university. And he was most impressed with my cleverness--that much was obvious as well.

"Unfortunately, he was not the only one who took an interest in me. In my eagerness, I ran afoul of a few of my classmates, upperclassmen who were more interested in parties and drink than learning--and, as it happened, beating the nerve out of bookish little mice who did nothing more than show them up as the boors they were.

"One day, my ego quite bruised--and sporting a few actual bruises as well--I decided not to risk lunching in the commons, and seeing as there was no cheese allowed in the library, I took refuge in the only other place I could think of. I went to his classroom.

"He was there, as I'd hoped. He often stayed after hours, studying some fascinating work or another, poring over pages as if they would reveal to him the secrets of the universe. Secrets I desperately wanted to know.

"'Professor Ratigan, sir?' I called, and now I see how small I was, how shy.

"'Yes? Why, hello,' he said, raising his gaze, and a single lens to his eye. He glanced down at the roll call sheet, then back up at me. 'You're, ah--Basil, is it?'

"'That's right, sir,' I said, and felt a sinking in my gut. All my contributions to his lectures, my peerless marks, and he wasn't even certain of my name?

"'Of course you are!' he exclaimed, and my hopes rose once more. 'There's only one Basil on my roster--which is quite a shame. The lot hasn't a whole brain between them, no appreciation for the arts, philistines all--but you! Why, I'd enjoy an entire classful of you!'

"'Professor,' I said, taking a step down; it was a spacious and tall ampitheater-style lecture hall, with his desk at the very bottom. 'Forgive my impertinence, but I wonder... That is, could I possibly trouble you to...'

"'Oh come now, my boy, just spit it out,' he said with an impatient gesture of his elegant, white-gloved paw. 'Do you see a class in session? Neither do I. So don't stand on pomp and circumstance--I find it frightfully tiresome, and unbearably dull.'

"'May I join you for lunch?' I blurted, face burning so hot I thought my whiskers might crumble to ash. 'Please?'

"'Ha!' He grinned up at me then, a bright and winning smile, the kind you may see on the face of a star of stage and screen, and let out a chuckle that, instead of setting off another unpleasant flush of anxiety, warmed me to my bones. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

"I sighed with relief, and continued my descent.

"We spent all that lunchtime, and nearly into his next class, talking of not just this week's reading, but the books he sought out on his own time. Today's selection was that human visionary Shakspeare--Julius Caeser, I believe. Shakespeare's verse, when spoken on stage was the perfect marriage of poetry and drama, he said, and that play in particular... He had a fascination with royalty even then." Basil smiled in a sardonic kind of way that didn't quite seem to fit on his earnest face. "Too bad he didn't learn a thing from Caeser's fate."

"It sounds more to me as if he was busy studying you," I said carefully, not wishing to insult or suggest an off-color joke--but how deliberate had been that cad's manipulation! How ham-pawed, yet how masterful, drawing in a young mouse with all the words he wanted, and needed most to hear!

"Oh, yes, indeed," Basil said, and his tone was one of awe and wonder, and perhaps even a little lingering disbelief, even now. "He saw me, Dawson. I wasn't simply another student in a lecture hall, another face in a crowd, another scruffy, go-nowhere mouseling beneath anyone's notice. For the first time in my young life, someone truly, deeply... Saw me."

To that, I could say nothing. So I stayed quiet, and let Basil continue his tale.

"He said that I was a rare and special case, that I was meant for great things. He wanted to help me on my way, that it would be an honor. And he was as true as his word. The Professor had indeed seen promise in my intellect--and perhaps an easy mark. But he had influence at this hallowedinstitution. He pulled strings, perhaps greased palms, and opened doors for me that otherwise would have remained forever barred to a mouse of my standing.

"Soon, I found myself not an outsider but a guest, invited to gatherings of upperclassmen, exclusive seminars and round tables, and more informal discussions led by none other than the Professor himself. We met after classes in the library, and occasionally, his own home. The other students were not only older than myself, but more learned, more at-ease, and we spoke far into the little hours of the night, on a plethora of subjects--poetry, yes, but also philosophy, history, drama, art, scientific innovations, and current events."

"I'm sure you felt right at home, surrounded by so many eager minds," I said, a smile coming unbidden to my face as I imagined a younger, even brighter-eyed Basil with worlds upon worlds of knowledge to explore, and mysteries to unravel--though likely mysteries a sight less dangerous than the ones we faced together now. Nothing could have suited him more.

"Oh my, yes," he said happily, proving my suspicion right. "Although, however eager a participant I'd been in Professor Ratigan's class, at these gatherings I did far less speaking and far more listening than you might imagine, given my, ah, predilection for verbosity."

"I had noticed, yes," I replied dryly, fondly. "But back then, you held your tongue?"

"Indeed," he said, and here his speech slowed, became more self-conscious and uncertain. "I did not feel as... equipped to occupy this elevated world, as my colleagues. I did not feel worthy. I was a naive and common city mouse from humble beginnings, there by virtue of scholarship and brains, not status or connection to this wealthy and powerful society. I felt small, simple... and as if, at any moment, any of them could discover that there had been some horrible mistake, and that I did not belong among them, or at Ratcliffe University, at all."

"I very much doubt anyone discovered that," I said. "Because it's complete nonsense! You, not worthy of studying alongside those high-society mice? If you didn't belong there, it's only because you're a sight less pig-headed than most of them. No offense to pigs."

"Hmm, do tell that to my critics among the police force," he said, and I laughed.

"I did say _less_ , Basil." I took a breath, and as our amusement faded, gave him a nod. "Go on."

"One night," he continued. "There was a party. Dinner, discussion, and dancing, all held in Professor Ratigan's lovely home. That night, I was the only student in attendance."

"What a shock," I mumbled, unable to keep my peanut-gallery commentary to myself.

"It was a sumptuous affair," Basil said, as if he hadn't heard. "Everything lit up, golden and shining with fairy-lights, the kind you'd see on a rich human's property, not a mouse's. He had everything. The best food, the most in-demand musicians, the latest fashions.

"The Professor held court all night, speaking before his guests on the same subjects that had so enraptured me, and all of them, distinguished lords and ladies, and even the Chancellor of the university at the time, rapt and eager to hear him speak."

He paused, eyes flicking down again.

"I was among them but now... Now, I was, once more, simply one in a crowd. The only student among the respected faculty and visiting officials, all of them here for him, giving him their undivided attention. And all of them speaking a language I did not know! Recalling other parties and readings, shows and salons, to which of course I'd never been invited. Laughing at names and private jokes I had never heard. I was lost!"

He paused again, and this time his eyes widened in what looked to me like fear at the remembered humiliation itself. I'd seen how something like that--being brought low, being laughed at--could effect my friend, how it had crushed his spirit. I never wished to see it again.

"My heart began to race," Basil said. "I couldn't breathe, I--I had to get out of there--suddenly everything was too bright, too loud, too closed-in. I felt trapped. I felt as if I were about to be crushed and trampled by the crowd, collapsing under the weight of my own hubris, my foolishness to think that I could ever belong here!"

"Basil," I said quietly, and placed one paw carefully over his. "Breathe."

He started, and looked up at me as if he'd forgotten I was there. But as soon as he saw me, he relaxed, the tension in him flowing out like water through a drain.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said, quietly, earnestly. "I did need that. Now, where was--ah yes. The one place I could no longer stand to be. I stepped away, out onto his terrace balcony. It was early springtime, flowers barely in bloom, but there was a spray of purple lilacs on the trellis... I can still smell their perfume. I can hear the music that drifted out from the party inside--a sprightly waltz. Mozart, if I'm not mistaken. I can see the whirls of color as guests danced inside in their finery. And here stood I, alone, and somehow an intruder in this sublime world.

'Then, just as quickly,I was not alone.

"'Basil?' called a familiar voice, and I turned to see him pushing aside the velvet curtain to step outside, his face a mix of confusion and concern--and then, as his eyes fell on me, they lit up in a joy I'd never seen ignite because of me, anywhere else. "Here you are, my boy! I was afraid you'd left.'

'"Leave?' I said, and forced a smile. 'Never. I wouldn't miss this for the world.'

"'Oh, good,' he said, with a pleased smile of his own. 'Then come back inside! There are a few scientist guests just arrived who I'd simply adore for you to meet.'

"'Are you sure?' I asked. 'I wouldn't want to intrude... I mean, all those others in there--the lords and ladies, the Chancellor, the scientists! They have important things to say, not me. They belong here, with--with you. I... don't."

"You don't belong here?' he said in a baffled tone, as if I'd disappeared once more and he was searching for me. 'How can such a clever young mouse spew such nonsense? I'd thought you were above such foolishness! I suppose I was wrong. How disappointing.'

'''Yes,' I said mournfully, heart sinking. I felt my dreams slipping away like sand through my paws. "I suppose you were."

There was a moment of silence. Then he broke it--not with a word, but a laugh.

"Basil! Come now--I was only joking! Really, imagine taking that seriously!" He stepped forward then, two long-legged strides that would have taken me five to cover. So close our paws nearly touched. "Do you think I care about the rest of this revelry? All the silly prancing dunderheads in there, bobbing about like a flock of pigeons, chasing after the next shiny object that catches their attention? No, my boy. You are the only one tonight I truly cared to see. After all, I threw this gala for you."

"'For me?' I was flabbergasted. I hardly dared to believe such a thing; it was too good to be true. 'All this--for me? You're joking with me again, Professor.'

"'Not this time,' he said in a low, full voice that I could practically feel in my own chest. 'I mean it with all my heart. You are what I'm celebrating tonight, Basil. I feel as if I've been searching for you all my life, someone to match my intellect, someone who understands me. An equal.'

"'And you think...' I said, barely remembering how to speak at all. 'You think that I'm...'

"'Basil,' he said, favoring me with a smile like the sun shining down on a half-frozen flower, after a long, bitter winter. 'I've finally found you. My search is over. You and I have a long and wonderful story to tell together. And this... This is only the beginning.'

"He pulled me close, his large paw at the small of my back, and I gazed up, up into his eyes. One of my own paws had landed on his broad chest, and I could feel the fine satin of his tie. The music faded away, as did the sunset, and the party, and the rest of the world. All that was left was his voice, his eyes, his scent. He had a sprig of the same lilac tucked into his lapel, and it was all I could... He drew me up against him and held me tightly, so tightly that I could scarcely catch my breath. He held the back of my head in his paw, its soft glove, and...

"And I... he..." Basil trailed off then, eyes wide open and staring. I did not at all like that look, or the last time I'd seen it--we'd been trapped in Ratigan's death-contraption, and he'd stared at the ceiling the very same way.

"He... kissed you?" I managed to ask. Hated to ask. _Had_ to ask.

"Yes," Basil said, that same frighteningly vacant expression on his face, and gave a slow nod. "Yes, and more. Then, and the day after, and the day after that. That one moment was that was all it took. I was his. Body and soul."

"I... Basil, I..." I began, but words failed. I gathered my nerve and tried again. "You were so young. He was your professor. You couldn't possibly..."

"Oh, I know, Doctor. Believe me, I see it all now, in hindsight's perfect clarity. The flattery, the grooming, the isolation... the snare. Do you remember his contraption? The mousetrap?"

"How could I ever forget?" I shuddered. If it hadn't been for Basil, I wouldn't have been here to remember at all.

"That was him. A mousetrap, with the world's most beautiful bait. He was inviting, enchanting, he drew you to him... and then, from nowhere, he struck." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Except that time he didn't fell me with a blow, but a kiss. And I... I didn't fall for him. I jumped."

"Were pushed, more like," I grumbled. "Off a cliff. Basil, you can't possibly think you had any real say in the matter."

"On the contrary," he said. "I had all the choice in the world. He gave me endless opportunities to leave, said he was most aware of the impropriety--or how others would see it, those of lesser intellect who wouldn't understand our connection. How he could lose his position, were anyone else to learn of us--but that I was worth the risk. Yes, yes I realize that was all lies and nonsense, but the point remains... I could have left at any time. I did not."

"Could have left school?" I persisted. "Could have given up on your entire future? Because that's what he held in his dirty paws, your whole life, and don't you think otherwise. No, Basil, that decision was not yours to make. It should have been, but it wasn't--Basil!"

"No, no, Dawson, you don't understand," he said with a slow shake of his head. "It wasn't like it is now. I wasn't being toyed with by Ratigan the monster, but Ratigan--Padraic--the Professor. Wise and charming and... And I wanted him. I made my choice, because I wanted him, and I wanted him to want me--and if I sensed a hint of danger, I brushed it aside. It only made him more attractive, anyway, the thrill of being caught, the edge of scandal... The points of his claws against my skin."

"Well, there you have it," I said, folding my arms. Basil's tenaciousness was usually an asset; right now, stubbornly sticking to this wrong-headed point was a danger. "If he was so brilliant and good, then why would he turn to such evil? If there was any good in it at all, if the choice was ever yours, then how could his path, and yours, take such a dreadful turn?"

"Because it didn't start out that way," Basil said patiently, as if he were the professor now, and I the student. "It began in small things--petty, really. He would claim responsibility for certain discoveries, for particularly astute papersto be published in prestigious journals. Some were mine. I thought nothing of it; that it was a small price to pay to be allowed to bask in his radiance. What was a piece of my own work, when compared with his? I let him do what he liked; my brain was at his disposal as much as my body. But every bit of work that he copied... and every careless bruise he left, every piece of me that he plucked for himself--now I see that he was also taking pieces of my soul."

Basil was quiet for nearly a full minute, and I did not disturb him. When he spoke again, his voice was unusually flat, a near-monotone, so different from his usual flamboyant speech it took me by surprise.

"We remained entangled for the rest of my time at Ratcliffe. No one knew. No one knows. Except for us, and you."

"You mean--for _four years_?" I gaped.

"And for two more after graduation." His mouth curved into a distant, joyless smile, and though he stayed facing my direction, I was sure his eyes did not see me at all, instead gazing upon something I could only guess at--and feared to. "Yes, yes, everyone says it's so simple--if someone is treating you badly, why not just leave? Why not walk away, tell your awful abuser to go make a nightmare of someone else's life? The answer is the same as to the riddle of the frog in the boiling pot. Why does it not flee before it burns? Because until then, its surroundings have felt warm and pleasant, and by the time the water scalds the skin, it's far too late. The same was true of him, and me. As I told you, I entered into our relationship of my own volition--or so I believed at the time," he amended.

I did not answer but gave a nod and a huff. He must have seen my glower, and to his credit, at least paid lip service to my words.

"For years, the nightmare seemed a pleasant dream. And by the time I recognized it for what it was... my awakening was not an easy one."

I could not speak.

For a moment, neither could Basil. His face twisted once more in pain, he wavered as if he were about to fall over, and I hurried to help him lay back down.

"That's all for today, I'm afraid," he gasped, eyes squeezed shut. He'd pushed too hard again, as he did in so many things, and finally reached his limit.

"I should say," I replied, resting one hesitant paw on his one undamaged shoulder. My touch had not been nearly so tentative in some time, but he was so grievously injured, and so... Well, after everything I'd heard, some part of me hardly dared to touch him at all, lest I somehow inflict more pain upon the vulnerable young mouse he'd once been, or the older one before me. And as always, first, I must do no harm.

But he relaxed under my touch and turned his face toward my paw, his ragged breathing smoothing into regularity. I stroked his face, and could feel him slip the rest of the way into sleep. I stayed awake, watching over him until the fire died.

* * *

**A FOOTNOTE:**

Basil... I expect you're still reading this, your curiosity never to be sated. I have little to say to you now except that I'm sorry. I am so sorry, for everything I've heard, for everything you've suffered. I'm sorry for what I have yet to tell you, my own secrets, my own past that still comes back to haunt not only mine, but yours, you good and undeserving mouse, my most treasured friend. You deserve only joy, and I fear that, despite my best efforts to help and support you, I've brought you only pain. And, heavens forgive me, when we speak next, I will have caused you even more. Perhaps, upon hearing my words, you will cast me out. Perhaps I will have left this house, and your life, forever.

And... it grieves my heart to say, but perhaps that is for the best.

Some nights I wonder, should I remain by your side at all? Am I your balance and counterpart, or a specter of misfortune, whose presence will only bring you further grief? Knowing what I know now, would I better serve you by making a graceful exit, and leaving you, the Great Detective, standing tall and alone?

But I know in my heart, such a question is pointless. Perhaps it is weak, or selfish, but I believe my being here does bring you joy--and then, who would document your brilliance, to place before the world? And who would remind you to do things like eat, or sleep--this would be a hint, Basil, do take it! Our dear Mrs. Judson, however lovely and caring, cannot be charged with maintaining your health and safety... at least not without a substantial raise. In fact, that may be in order as it is,given the lingering bloodstains on the floor.

No--I will continue on as your doctor, and your partner, and your friend in all things, as long as you shall have me. If I am gone, I will have left at your behest and nothing else.

I could no more desert you, Basil, than I could stop breathing. For if I did either, I would be not long for this world.

Most of all, I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you, or stand beside you, to protect you from those who would squander and abuse you as a young mouse--younger, rather, for you are still so young, with so many puzzles, and capers, and wild whirlwind days ahead of you, whether I am there to see them or not. You have so much _living_ left to do.

And you will live, Basil of Baker Street. Right now, you lay sleeping the heavy, uneasy sleep of one caught between the living and the dead. But you will awaken. You will come back to me. This is not the end of you, Basil. _He_ is not the end of you. This I swear.

\- From the desk of Doctor David Q. Dawson


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a vague warning this time for non-explicit discussion of wartime perils and injuries.
> 
> Again, ALL BACKSTORY IS SPECULATION... but I figured something had to happen to explain why Ratigan is Like That. (And then my pain-brain took over, and here we are~) Obviously this is not an Excuse, and falls squarely into the Cool Motive, Still Murder category.
> 
> I ALMOST feel bad for shooting Basil and making Dawson hurt so badly... but don't worry. It ends with as much sweetness as these mice deserve, which is... so much. They've brought me so much happiness in a very scary time, I love them so much (and they love EACH OTHER so much, and this is me expressing how much, because they can't) and I just am so glad they exist.

The next day, I changed Basil's bandages and, at his insistence over my doomed protests, helped him make the short-but-slow and careful trip from bedroom to fireside armchair. He'd also insisted on standing and donning his favorite dressing gown himself, stepping into his slippers, gingerly crossing the threshold under his own power, and only accepting my supportive arm briefly in the hallway, and again once we reached the few steps down.

"Now then," he said once he was settled in his usual position, and I'd gone to work building the fire to a cozy glow. "I believe there was something you wanted to tell me."

"What?" I yelped, nearly braining myself on the mantlepiece as I jumped to my feet. "I didn't say anything of the sort."

"You didn't have to, Doctor," Basil said with a smile that was only slightly more subdued than it might have been. "Your every move and word tells me so; something's bothering you, even beyond the obvious. You don't have to be a world-renowned sleuth to see that."

"I... It's..." Every word in my vocabulary seemed to have been shaken out of my head. Why had I not expected this? Had I really thought something like a near-fatal gunshot wound could slow his faculties, at least as far as my own self was concerned? I'd known I would have to tell him soon, of course, but had expected to have a bit longer to prepare.

Basil said nothing as I floundered. Perhaps he didn't have the energy for it after his exertion, or perhaps he simply knew that, as always, I'd come around and concede his point. And that is, of course, exactly what happened, as I retrieved the tea I'd prepared for us to share, and sank down into the chair opposite him.

"Yes, there is," I said at last as he reached for his tea; his movements were stiff but sure, and were it not for the bandages visible beneath his fine robe, I could have believed this was just another of our ordinary chats on an ordinary day. "Something that I should have told you a long time ago."

"Well, there's no time like the present!" he said, with the characteristic enthusiasm that so often followed another round of his usual brilliant chaos. This time, however, his vigor seemed too deliberate, his smile just a shade too late to hide his anxiety. I felt a pang of guilt already, but as Basil had been so brutally taught by a bullet and what came after, there was no way out but through.

"You know that before we met, I'd had quite a lengthy career as a military surgeon," I began simply enough.

"Yes, of course--sixty-sixth regiment, you'd just returned quite recently from Afghanistan, if my memory serves." He gave me a smug little look, reassuring in its Basil-ness; we both knew it always did.

"Indeed, but my career did go back much earlier than that," I said. "I served in Her Majesty's sixty-sixth, that is true, but I was also one of a more flexible crisis response crew. We had no permanent station, and went where we were called, providing emergency relief. My unit was one of soldiers and doctors both, leading search-and-rescue teams, extracting and treating civilians who'd been displaced by the violence or caught in the crossfire, creatures and humans alike."

"Humans, really?" Basil asked, looking absolutely delighted, large ears perking up.

"Well, yes! Is that so strange?"

"Oh no, not at all. In fact, it's quite natural," he said with a chuckle that warmed me from the inside. "After seeing you in action all this time, I shouldn't be surprised at the idea of you saving someone a hundred times your size. Imagine one of those giants, looking up from certain peril to see you, a heroic mouse rescuer!"

"Yes, well..." I huffed a bit, bashful as I was whenever Basil's praise turned effusive.

"Never mind, Doctor," he said, though he was still smiling at me and my heated face. "Carry on."

"Yes," I said again, and then sobered somewhat, mood cooling at the direction my story was now to take. "Now, there was a great deal of mice coming and going, so quickly it often seemed I barely had time to patch them up before they were hurled back into danger. But a few were regularly assigned to guard my surgeon's unit, and I did share a rapport with one of them in particular."

"Oh, really?" Basil asked, raising his eyebrows and smiling at me over his tea in a conspiratorial kind of way. "And did the two of you get on well?"

"I'd say so. He was an uncommonly well-read and studied private, one who had little in common with the rest of his company, and not a friend among them. Our tastes matched a bit when it came to reading, both mouse and human creators. Would you believe he'd heard of Holmes in his early days? This is actually where I learned of the man's genius in the first place, years before I met you."

"Sounds like a mouse after my own heart," Basil said, though now his smile was guarded. Ever wary and ever correct to be.

"I did enjoy hearing him enthuse about intrigue and mysteries, a world so far removed from the dust and blood of my tour of duty that it seemed almost magical. And poetry," I reflected. "He liked to recite, late at night when the fields were quiet and the hours long, and I liked to listen. I'd never had a head for it, and still don't have the gift of understanding clever turns of phrase or metaphor, any of that--but he did. It was like a secret language of his own, and here was I catching only a few words. He was quite large for a mouse, taller, rougher than the others--his brothers-in-arms called him a clumsy and lumbering brute, among other things, but to me, he had a poet's heart."

"I can certainly sympathize with being misunderstood by one's peers," Basil said with a bit of a sympathetic wince--which quickly gave way to something darker. He looked as if he were about to add something, but he held his tongue and I went grimly on instead, like forging onward into an uncertain battlefield.

"But as sweet as he'd been at the beginning, that's how sour he became. My friend was so tortured by his fellows that that heart began to harden, until he cursed them, wishing them ill, and then dead. I was alarmed at my friend's change, but really... I couldn't quite blame him for it. War does terrible things to a mouse's heart--and that's without pain coming from your own side."

I paused to sip my cooling tea. My paws were shaking, just enough to go unnoticed by anyone who was not Basil.

"Then one day my friend limped into camp alone, nearly dead. He'd been mauled by a cat, nearly eaten alive, and he seemed like nothing more than a rag doll three-quarters torn apart." My tone hardened along with my face. "His fellows had not been helpful, and he'd been all but left to his own devices. So it was left to me. I battled all night to save him."

"But you did save him," Basil said, and it wasn't quite a question, as if there could be no other answer. "Of course you did."

"I did, yes." I said simply, and nodded--although my feelings were, and remain, far from simple. "It is... Not an easy thing, to operate on a friend. To hold anyone's life in one's paws is humbling, frightening, but when it is a life you know..."

I felt myself beginning to slip away. This entire conversation, I'd felt not quite present, as if I were speaking from some other time and place--not in the days of which I spoke, but not here either, somewhere off to the side, safe from both memories and painful present-day admissions.

Something touched my arm and I started. Basil did not move his paw, instead giving a brief squeeze, weak but there. He smiled up at me, and I returned to myself. Life became real again. He nodded toward his own bandaged, still-brutalized back. "In that case, I'm even more impressed."

I tried to smile back, but could not find the will. I feared that I would not, until my confession was completed.

"But the story does not end there. That night, as I finally dragged myself toward my bedroll, I head something moving in the dark, something rather large. I was certain it was the cat, come to finish the job and then some--but it wasn't. It was my friend, heading the other way, limping out of the camp under the cover of night."

"He was deserting," Basil said, another non-question to which I could only nod.

"He told me that as his comrades fled the cat's claws, he cried out for help. One of them answered. They said..." I dredged the words up from history, remembered in his anguished voice, flatly recreated in my own. "Rats could fend for themselves."

Basil said nothing. For once, his expressive face, so often lit up brightly in pursuit of an exciting clue, or furrowed in thought, betrayed nothing. I lowered my eyes from his, and went on.

"Every mouse, and rat, it seems, has his limit, and my fr--the soldier I'd known," I corrected myself. The word no longer belonged. "Had reached his. He'd had enough of the death and near-death, risking his life for no reward, and no comfort--not even the protection of his own side. His unit had left him, he told me. Run away as soon as the cat reared its beastly head, not once checking to make sure he was with them. No one came to help, he'd escaped himself and he'd staggered all the way back just as alone."

Another pause. I did not drink this time. I set my tea down instead, at last resigned to never finishing. It must have long since gone cold anyway.

"He begged me not to bring him back to the recovery tent, and to say nothing. To tell everyone that he'd died on the table from his injuries, that if our friendship had ever meant a thing, I'd let him go and not follow. There was nothing left for him here, and no one save for me to miss him if he was gone, even into the grasp of death."

I took in a deep, shuddering breath. Wasn't airing old secrets supposed to bring a feeling of relief, catharsis? Instead, it simply made every pain new and sharper.

"So I did. I reported a time of death and a cause. I certified that his body had been disposed-of and all was resolved. Nobody questioned my report. His injuries had been so horrid, it wasn't at all difficult to believe he'd simply succumbed, and no one cared to give it a second look. He was home free, and so was I. I served the rest of my deployment always with one eye open, always half-expecting some superior to realize what I'd done and rightly accuse me of falsifying records and aiding in a most disgraceful desertion. But they didn't. It was barely mentioned again. I carried that secret, that lie of omission with me until I was honorably discharged... But was my honor really still intact? Or was that just one more lie?"

"And did you ever meet him again?" This time, Basil did frame it as a question--but he still clearly already knew the answer. He'd been watching me with a narrowing gaze, growing in both shrewdness and suspicion. He knew me so well, I thought. Knew me inside and out, perhaps better than I knew myself. Who in the world was I to think for a moment I could keep a thing from Basil of Baker Street?

But then, why ask me a question at all? It could only mean that he knew the answer--as he so often did--but was hoping for a different one. It was less a question, and more a plea.

I could not speak for a long moment, could not bear to dash his fragile hopes, and silence stretched between us like a widening chasm. Finally, I made myself continue, and by now my dissociation from myself was so strong, it was as if I were ordering another mouse to say the words for me, to spare me the dirty work and break Basil's heart in my stead.

"I believe I have," I said, voice coming out a whisper that I barely recognized. "I knew him under a different name when we met all that time ago--he's probably gone through several, and just kept the one with the distinguished Professor's career, but... I would know his face anywhere."

"And would he recognize you?" No longer a plea, but even more worried. Basil's eyes were wider now, a tension in his paws as if he wished to reach out and take mine, but he stayed where he was. I felt a pang in my chest.

"I can't be sure," I said, clearing my throat and trying to inject some levity into my voice, dearly hoping to see him smile in return instead of looking at me with that odd mixture of pain and desperation. "But it doesn't appear that way. But then, I have changed quite a bit since my younger days!" I gave my respectable mustache a twirl, and my even-more-respectable belly a pat, chuckling a bit; anything to clear the clouds on his face.

It didn't work. Of course not. Basil only looked more serious, more dour. "But your name hasn't. Surely he'd recall that."

I frowned. I could not keep up that pretense of lightness for long. "One would hope so. But perhaps I was easier to forget than he--maybe I didn't stay in his mind at all. Perhaps our friendship meant more to me than him. But then, perhaps I am entirely mistaken as to his identity! His wounds were indeed dreadful. Maybe he collapsed three steps down the road and died right then and there. Perhaps his story had a different ending entirely. I wish to every star in the heavens that..."

"That what?" Basil inquired, when my guilt became too much to bear, when I could not finish that sentence without betraying myself and my life's work further. "You act as if you'd killed him instead of saved him."

"I wish I had!" I blurted, before I could stop myself, and the damage was done. I clapped my paw to my mouth, mortified, but Basil was still looking at me steadily, no trace of blame on his face. I let out a bone-deep sigh, heavy with the weight of shame carried for years, and too many sleepless nights. "Some nights, I wish I'd failed to save him. I wish I'd alerted the guard, had him arrested for desertion. I wish I'd drawn another surgeon's shift--that I'd done anything, _anything_ rather than save and release the _rat_ who's wreaked such havoc, such unimaginable pain across London! And the world! And--and _you_ , my dearest friend! Oh, my soul! The wounds he's left on you!"

Basil shut his eyes briefly. He obviously knew that it wasn't just the physical injuries of which I spoke, although they must still be hurting him badly. Finally, he spoke, so softly I had to lean a bit closer to hear. "You don't mean that."

"Mean what? How could I not wish to prevent any of Ratigan's evil?" I spat his name like a curse, and meant it as such with all my heart. "The atrocities he would commit?"

"You couldn't have known he would commit them. And then, at least, he hadn't."

"But he did! He's ruined so many lives, murdered, destroyed, brutalized so many innocents--including you! How could I not long to spare you your pain, new and old? You were a student, little more than a mouseling, Basil! And now, now he's nearly killed you again! If I could turn back the hands of time, I'd do it! I'd walk away! I'd let him expire on my table, and stop his reign of terror before it began!"

"No, you wouldn't." Basil spoke quietly, then held up a bandaged paw--with a new red stain leaking through--as I opened my mouth to argue. I fell silent at once, and listened as he softly spoke.

"You don't wish you had walked away. You don't wish to have let a patient die, whatever evil that patient had done, or would do in the future. Because unless I'm greatly mistaken, a doctor's first law by which he lives is the same for mice and giants: _'first, do no harm.'_ You, my dear Doctor, have never wished to do harm to another living creature who didn't vastly deserve it, or to withhold help when it was in your power to give. It's why you're the best example of the profession I know. And the best mouse. If you had, you wouldn't be the Doctor I know today. That Doctor Dawson--I wouldn't wish to know him at all."

I could not see Basil anymore. I could not see at all. The world swam, then disappeared as I shut my eyes tightly against the tears threatening to fall. It was too much; he was too much for me and always had been in the best possible way. I was lost, plunged into a maelstrom deep within myself; the howling winds were years past, dreams and guilt and fury--and all the suffering could have been so easily avoided. All that anchored me was his kindness, but even that was a difficult thing to hold onto in the midst of such a storm.

Then, there came soft sounds I could not identify, my poor brain was so distressed--then something touched my face and my stinging eyes flew open to meet another pair; green and quick and piercing, but right now, so soft, so forgiving.

"I wish to know _you_ ," he said with such tenderness, such openness that my eyes stung anew. "I wish for you to set down this burden and let your heart be light. I wish for you to come to bed and lay your head down beside me, and awaken a new mouse... and never trouble yourself with things past again. I know such a thing is easier asked than delivered... but I trust that you'll at least try." Basil smiled, and my heart rose, fluttered, began to live again. "You _always_ try. And you're almost always right--nearly as often as I am."

Somehow I found the strength to smile back. Or perhaps he found it for me. "Does this mean you're finally taking your doctor's orders, and getting some much-needed rest? I thought such a thing was foolish."

Basil took my paw and held it as he slowly, carefully rose. For a moment we stood together by the fire, joined and unmoving. "As long as you're with me, there's no fool thing I can't do."

We went to bed. He slept. I slept--for once, a swift and dreamless sleep, free of pain and fear. I do not believe I dreamed, but if I did, it was no nightmare. Instead, I feel it was a conversation between Basil and myself that was so unremarkable, so domestic and uneventful, that it blended with my waking life until there was no difference between the two at all. Truly, I could not ask for a sweeter respite. I wanted, and still want, no illustrious honors or grand parties, and no peril, as far as such a thing is possible in our continued profession: my dreams, literally and figuratively, are of simple days with my not-so-simple companion, making the world a less-frightening place bit by bit, and ending each adventure together by the fire.

* * *

I woke to see Basil's sleeping face: free from pain, untroubled, and so young. I'd raised my paw to stroke his rounded ear, his soft cheek and lovely long nose, but before it got there, he'd opened his eyes as if sensing my intent.

"It's a beautiful day, my dear Dawson," he said, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smile one might call mischievous.

"How would you know?" I teased. "The windows are closed, the shades drawn, and we're not even out of bed."

He yawned, perhaps for effect. "Must I _really_ say it again?"

"What, that it's _elementary?_ " I said in my best imitation of the detective's favorite expression. "I don't see how, not when you've no clues, and no way of knowing for sure. I doubt even Holmes could say for certain what kind of day it is without looking out a window!"

Basil chuckled, and gingerly leaned forward toward me, and even if I could have moved a muscle, I would not have for all the riches in this world or any other.

He kissed me then, slow, soft, but so certain, that as if despite his injuries, he'd thought of nothing else these past few harrowing days and nights. It had always been easy for Basil, so easy to slip past my every defense and make me tremble and melt at once, and even if most things carried much more difficulty for him at the moment, the practiced ease of this, this precious thing alone, was blissfully unchanged. He had me, had my heart, always had from the very beginning, and I lost myself once again--this time not in shame or guilt or fear, but his embrace, where there was simply no such thing as pain.

My heart soared as I fell, deeper into his kiss, and deeper in love with this inimitable, incomparable mouse I was somehow lucky enough to share a bed and a life with. And oh, if my poor, battered spirit had been weighed down by cares and pain before, now it had been blessed with wings.

At last, perhaps after a minute, or perhaps after many sweet and shining lifetimes in each others' arms, we parted and sighed. Our foreheads stayed touched together and his paw remained on my cheek--exactly where I'd considered touching him. As always, he knew. And, as always when we shared quiet moments in this quiet room, his voice was low, warm, and so, so very sweet.

"Of course it's a beautiful day. You're with me," Basil said to me, a smile playing across his face, the one he got when he'd just hit on a vital clue, or an atrocious pun, or a private joke--but one that he meant with all his heart. "That's all I need to know."

* * *

And that, at last, is the story told in its entirety: one of the past two nights, and many, many before this. It feels strange to write something only for myself with no plans for publication, no reader in mind save for my own conscience.

Even stranger still, I do indeed feel light, my heart free. I can only hope my dear detective feels the same. Being a good doctor--or a good mouse--is not simply a matter of the absence of harm, but the presence of healing, of providing a balm to those suffering. These revelations were the hardest conversations I've ever had to face. But if they had never come to pass, I would never have been able to heal Basil's great and wounded heart, nor truly call myself his doctor, or his friend.

Our pasts may be shadowed, but they are now entwined.

For what becomes of two shadows, when they meet? They flow together, and become one. As have Basil and I.

And with that, I lay down my pen and my regrets, and step back into Basil's and my life together at Baker Street, number two twenty-one and one half.

* * *

**A FINAL FOOTNOTE:  
**   


Basil, if you've read this far, your incorrigible inquisitiveness has ceased to be an annoyance, and become a marvel. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised after all; I marvel at the wonders of your mind and the depths of your heart every day.

I have endured many hardships and felt the cold grasp of mortal fear more times than I can count. But none of those horrors, Basil, no battlefield compares to the thought of losing you--to a bullet, or to my own secrecy and shame. I would face a million of the former before the latter, ever again in my life. I know this shall not be the last time you charge into danger, nor mine, for wherever you go, I shall follow. You have done, and still do so much good for so many--and I am a selfish mouse to wish for one moment you would stop risking yourself in the process, although there are nights I wish it with all my heart. But I know you better than that. To wager your life in the pursuit of goodness is to be who you are, Basil of Baker Street, and I could never wish you to be anyone else.

I don't know what lies ahead for you, for us; I never have, and that is the joy of it.

But I do know one thing for certain, and it is this: the sun has risen, and we are both still here. You are alive, and as long as your heart beats, that sun shall rise on a kind and hopeful world.

I cannot wait to see what new marvels you have in store for me today. I cannot wait to see you doing some strange and wonderful thing--like the way you pace with such deliberate purpose you wear a track in the carpet, just before your eyes light up with glee at some wild inspiration--and realize that, somehow, _I love you more than I did yesterday._

It shall not come as a surprise. I've realized it every single day since our hearts, like our shadows, first joined as one.

Now, once again, eat something! If I am not there to remind you myself, I shall return home soon--I could never stay away for long. If I am at home, do come and find me, whether I am awake or asleep, or even if we've quarreled! Yes, I mean this, perhaps especially should our partnership hit a bump in its long road, even if I've spoken in haste, and said something I do not mean, even if you're the one who's said the fool thing and I'm the one in a funk.

If we are not speaking, please, come speak to me anyway. Tell me what you've read here, remind me of the perils we've endured to be together--and I'll soon see what a silly mouse I am, wasting one of our days together being cross with you when we've survived everything in this letter and more, and somehow found one another after all. Whatever we may find to argue about, or whatever fiend we face next, it matters not a bit compared to the life we share, and all we've survived to create it.

I hope I never run out of stories to write about you, and with you, my dearest, brilliant, beautiful, best-beloved Basil.

There will never be a morning I do not wish to see your smile.

\- From the desk of Doctor David Q. Dawson

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Eri! Have ~8k words of horrible angst and wonderful gay. More to come.


End file.
